


Dancin' Past the Point of No Return

by Wildgoosery



Series: I'm With the Band [2]
Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BDSM, Hand Jobs, Light Bondage, M/M, Rough Oral Sex, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-25 22:33:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18583951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wildgoosery/pseuds/Wildgoosery
Summary: Brad makes a series of proposals. Taako gets cocky.





	Dancin' Past the Point of No Return

The thing is, it’s not like Taako really has a ton of options here.

He’s been working this weird-ass job for what, six months? And he hasn’t gotten laid even once in all that time, which is actually criminal. Like of course he could find a hookup on the surface in about ten seconds, he’s _Taako_ , but things have been busy. Lotta training, lotta reclaiming, and to be honest the commute’s a real pain and there’s no way to be subtle about it. Like you can’t really sneak out for a booty call when the only way to get there and back is in a huge glass sphere that your coworker launches out of a fuckin’ cannon.

And whatever, it’s fine. It’s not like he’s never had a dry spell. He’s not gonna shrivel up and die if he doesn’t get boned on the regular, he can jerk it with the best of ‘em.

It _was_ fine.

Turns out sitting on a huge hard cock in the woods does a great job of making some shit real urgent all the sudden. Pretty damn non-negotiable.

It’s not that Bradson won. It’s that Bradson reminded Taako that sex is amazing, actually, and Bradson _also_ happens to be the only gay dude on this cursed-ass moon who ticks all the necessary boxes: hot, available, and someone Taako doesn’t give a shit about.

So fine. Whatever. He’ll jump through a few stupid hoops. He’s done worse things for dick than show up to some middle manager’s office and bullshit his way through a meeting. Bradson will tell him he’s an asshole, Taako will lie and say he’ll be nicer to Leon, and then they’ll go somewhere to fuck. Easy peasy.

Or it will be once he gets himself there. Taako’s never actually _been_ to HR. He’s not really sure where it even is, and he wastes a quarter hour walking up and down beige corridors until he finds a little waiting area with a brass plaque that reads “Human Resources.”

Inside are four upholstered chairs, an end table with a stack of deadly boring magazines, and a sleek metal desk with a tiefling woman sitting behind it. She’s writing in a leather-bound notebook, and she does not look up as Taako slouches over.

“Yo,” he says. “Here to see Bradson.”

“Do you have an appointment?” she asks, eyes still down and hand still moving.

“Uh.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Not...specifically?”

“Mr. Bradson is very busy this afternoon,” she says, pleasant but distracted. “If you could leave a message with your availability, I’m sure we can figure something out in the next couple of weeks.”

“Listen, he...” Taako blows out an irritated sigh. “I just saw him like a week ago, he told me to come here whenever. Like he sent me all this...” A rolled-up stack of forms are pulled from his back pocket and slapped against his open palm. “I got _forms_.”

She takes her time writing out the end of a sentence, then finally lifts her head to look at him. “Ah. You’re Mr. Taako.”

“...Yeah?” He rocks back on his heels a little. Like not to blow his own horn here, but who the fuck on this moon wouldn’t recognize his voice from maybe two words?

She gestures to the chair that’s closest to her desk. “Go ahead and take a seat, we can get started as soon as I’ve tied up this paperwork.”

“Yeah, sorry, who are you? Exactly?”

“Charity,” she says, her smile sharp. “I’ll be conducting your six month review.”

“But...” Taako gestures to the closed door behind her desk. “Listen, Bradson told me to-”

“He’s requested that I speak with you myself, due to potential conflicts of interest,” she says, with a politeness like cut glass. “We can start as soon as you’re ready.”

“Uh.” Taako glances down at himself; at the borderline-transparent second skin of a white tee shirt, and the microscopic track shorts which hit him just below the curves of his ass. An outfit calculated for a hookup, not the actual work conversation he’s apparently expected to have with this woman before said hookup’s on the table.

Jesus Fantasy _Christ_ , Bradson’s an asshole.

He turns the chair around and slumps down onto it, his legs straddling the backrest and his arms folded across the top. “Just make it quick, okay?”

The tiefling woman -- Charity -- pulls an ominously thick binder from a shelf beside her desk, and flips it open to a section titled “Expectations of Employee Conduct.” She then spends the next half an hour relentlessly marching Taako through every single line, making him repeat key points aloud such that he can’t even space out. She also peppers this rules review with pointed comments about how he’s already violated most of them, and insists that he “verbally acknowledge” that he’s understood the details of exactly how big and what kind of a shithead he’s been.

It isn’t quite as bad as having his hookup ditch him in the woods, but it’s real fucking close, and he’s starting to wonder if maybe Horny Vacation Taako overestimated what Bradson’s worth suffering through. Like how hot does a guy need to be to balance out this agonizing journey through some desk jockey’s idea of how a _world-saving hero_ is supposed to chitchat with coworkers?

After what feels like ten thousand fucking years, she digs around in one of her drawers, then slides a form and a pen across her desk. “Just sign here to acknowledge that you’ve completed this review.”

“Fine, whatever.” He scrawls his name at the bottom of the paper without bothering to read it, tosses the pen aside with a loud rattle, and holds up the forms he’d found in his mailbox the day after Goodfriend. “So can I go hand this to Bradson now...?”

“Mr. Bradson prefers that I handle processing all paperwork regarding his employment,” Charity says smoothly, and holds out an open hand.

Taako glances down at the papers. These he did read, and while he’s not so much a contracts guy he knows what “declaring intent to engage in intimate relations with a colleague” means. He asks, “Isn’t there some kinda...confidentiality...issue...?”

“I’m very discreet,” she says, and smiles again, and yeah she is _def_ enjoying this. She keeps her hand extended and open, unrelenting, until horniness finally wins out over embarrassment and he slaps the papers into her palm.

He’s not sure what he was expecting, then -- maybe another form, maybe being made to wait while Bradson gets off an “important call,” standard issue hazing. Instead, Charity looks him in the eye, taps the wrinkled paperwork into a tidier pile, sets it down where the binder had been, and carefully reads through the entire thing one “I wanna fuck my coworker” page at a time.

At last she says, “Everything seems to be in order.” She affixes a paperclip, tucks it all into a file cabinet, and then regards Taako once again, cool and evaluative. “Mr. Bradson will see you, now.”

For some incompresible reason, Taako balks at this abrupt end to gatekeeping. “Don’t you have to check with-”

“I have clear instructions, Mr. Taako,” she says, still pleasant, still smooth, still cutting right through his words like a hot knife. “Unless there’s something else you need?”

Taako mutters a negative as he gets to his feet; eyes the closed door, the brass sign with “Brad Bradson: Director of HR” etched in black block letters.

 _Don’t be a chickenshit,_ he tells himself, savage, then takes the handle and turns it.

Bradson’s office is about what Taako would have expected if he’d ever bothered to think about it: off-white walls, dark blue carpet, a couple of paintings of mountains, a window looking out on the distant landscape below, a nondescript hanging plant, an old fashioned wooden desk with two chairs in front of it.

And there’s Bradson, seated at that desk in a large swivel chair, humming something vaguely arcane which Taako can’t quite place. He’s dressed in a plain collared shirt, no tie, with the sleeves rolled midway up his stupidly massive forearms. His hair is still pulled back in the same dumbass ponytail he’d worn at camp, and he’s wearing the same huge tortoise shell glasses. His eyes are on a folio of papers he’s laid out. He does not look up at the sound of footsteps, or of the door clicking shut again.

“All right, asshole, I turned in my permission slip,” Taako drawls, aiming for aloof-but-fuckable.

“Have a seat.”

Taako shoves his hands into his pockets. “Nah, I’m good.”

“It wasn’t a request,” Bradson says, and raises his head, and fixes Taako with a look that sends his heartbeat racing. “You may sit, or you may leave.”

Glad to at least have Bradson’s eyes on him, Taako swallows through a lump of nervousness and saunters over to one of the empty chairs. “So how’s this gonna work?” he asks as he flops down into it. He kicks a leg up and rests his foot on the edge of Bradson’s desk. “I mean no offense, my dude, but I don’t fuck randos at home.”

“I see.”

“So yeah, guess I’ll swing by yours later? Obvs wanna keep it on the DL that I’m gettin dicked by some clown from HR, but I can-”

“Here’s how this is going to ‘work,’” Bradson says. He doesn’t raise his voice, but there’s a stony weight of command to his tone. “I will inform you of my intentions for this appointment. When I’ve finished, you may leave, and thus conclude our personal business together.”

Taako snorts, although his heart is already thudding in his ears. “Yeah, sure.” He kicks his other leg up onto the desk in what he hopes is a lazy arc, broadcasting nonchalance. “And if I don’t?”

Bradson smiles, cold. “I expect you will.”

“Try me.”

Bradson carefully closes the folder of papers, rests both elbows on his blotter, and knits his fingers together. “If you choose to remain in my office I will use you as I see fit,” he says, “and I will be forceful as I do so. I will make every effort not to injure you but you will not be comfortable.”

This is so completely unexpected -- so insanely at odds with the business casual clothes and dishwater dull little office -- that it startles a nervous laugh out of Taako before he can stop himself. “Wow okay, maybe dial it back a- “

“I’m not finished,” Bradson says, his voice only just loud enough to cut through Taako’s words. “If you remain in my office I will move you to the floor, you will kneel in front of me, and I will fuck your mouth until I’m satisfied.” A quirk of one corner of his smile. “Do we understand each other?”

“Yeah, you’re ah...” Taako makes a show of examining his nails; tries to hitch a smirk onto his face, instead of wide-eyed slack-jawed hunger. “Not leaving a ton to the imagination here, champ,” he says, which is a lie. He’s imagining how Brad’s cock will feel on his tongue. He’s drowning in a fragmented flood of images, the memory of Brad hard and hot in his hand, felt through thin cotton pants; the smell of Brad’s hair and the taste of his mouth; being lifted and held with a rough wooden wall behind him and blunt fingers digging into his hips.

Brad watches him with predatory patience. “And?”

Holy shit, they’re gonna fuck in this office. Like _now_ . Like right here on this boring blue carpet, or maybe the desk, or the chair. He’d cooked up some vague plan of playing coy, maybe giving back as bad as what he got last week but _god_ , who cares, sometimes dignity’s for chumps. Sometimes you just gotta be a thirsty bitch.

One after another, Taako swings his legs back down to the floor. He gestures to himself, an offhand flick of his wrist, and says, “Still here, aren’t I?”

For a man his size, Bradson moves very quickly.

He rises from his chair in the same fluid movement that carries him around the desk. Before Taako’s fully registered what’s happening, Brad is looming overhead, and then a hand is fisted in his hair, tight and close to his scalp. Taako scrambles, pulse roaring, to get to his own feet, but he’s clumsy with surprise and the hand in his hair half-drags him up and off the chair with a sharp electric pain. And just as quickly, just as sudden, he’s dropped to the floor and hits the carpet in an awkward kneel, catching himself with a hand to stay upright, rough blue fibre prickling the heel of his palm and the points of his knees. And then his head is pulled back, his neck arched and exposed, breath thin and rasping as his body crackles with lust. As Bradson observes him from standing height, so close that Taako can smell him, clean sweat and laundered cotton.

Bradson lifts the hand that isn’t twisted up in Taako’s hair, and draws the tip of his thumb along the curve of Taako’s jaw, the nail gently scraping skin. “Why did you come here?” he asks, low. Quiet.

“Why do you think, asshole?” Taako spits back, toothless and reedy. He gasps as the hand in his hair pulls harder, the angle of his neck at the edge of unbearable.

Brad takes firm hold of Taako’s chin. “I think I’d like to you tell me.”

“I...” Taako’s scalp burns with pain and his voice sounds alien in his own ears, panting and desperate and distorted by the grip on his jaw. His cock is already straining at the slick fabric of his shorts. “God, just do it-”

“Do what?”

“You _know-”_

The fist in his hair tightens. “Tell me.”

“I wanna fuck,” Taako gasps, too high. “I want you to fuck me.”

Brad’s hands draw away, then, and Taako tilts reflexively forward, panting and shaky with adrenaline, a hand coming up to brace himself against Brad’s hip.

“Take off my belt,” Brad rumbles, “and hand it to me.”

Brad is wearing pale khaki trousers, and Taako feels a surge of lust and triumph at the obvious bulge of Brad's erection. He could be difficult about this but he doesn't actually want to be. What he wants is to get a good look at Brad's dick, and this is a step in the right direction. So he reaches readily up to tug at brass and worn brown leather, then slides the belt free.

He folds it over itself and holds it up, trying his best to look smug. “You gonna hit me with it?”

“Not today,” Brad says simply, and takes the belt from him. “Arms over your head. Wrists together.”

“What's your-”

“If I want you to speak I will ask you a question. Arms over your head.”

Taako lifts his arms, muleish, but cants forward as he does so to press his face into the hot swell at the front of Brad's pants. This wins him a soft sigh, barely audible, that makes his own dick jump.

Unseen, the body-warmed belt is wound snug around his wrists. The tail of it is pressed into his palm, and his fingers firmly guided closed around it. An unmistakable instruction.

Then Brad's hands move to his fly, efficient and unhurried as he unfastens the closures to reveal the tucked-in hem of his shirt; the blue cotton boxers that follow every contour of what they're now barely containing. Brad reaches in, and tugs himself free, and Taako moans a little before he can stop himself.

Fuck he's so big. He's so _big_ and so close and he smells fantastic, clean skin and damp cotton and the unmistakable musk of an eager cock. Broad fingers hold it steady just beside Taako's cheek, and warmth pours off of it, irresistible.

Taako doesn't resist. He shifts the fraction of an inch to bring skin against skin, turns his head, sighs with real pleasure at velvet softness on his half-parted lips. It’s everything he’d hoped it would be, the perfect shade of blood-dark green, rock hard under silken skin, thick but conquerable. Brad’s an asshole, sure, but his dick is amazing, and right now all Taako wants is to see how much of it he can get into his mouth.

“One last thing,” Brad rumbles from above, in a tone which Taako has begun to recognize as a blinking neon harbinger. “Would you prefer I come on your face? In your mouth? Some third option perhaps?”

Taako’s arms are already starting to ache; he ignores them, and nuzzles at the head of Brad’s cock, and says, “I want you to come in my ass.”

A dark chuckle. “Such a greedy little thing.”

Taako hums agreement and flickers out the tip of his tongue, tasting a bittersalt bead of precome. He's gonna ruin this orc. He'll go along with whatever weird powerplay cranks Bradson's shaft and then absolutely destroy him.

“That's lost you an option, I think,” Brad muses. “Your mouth, or your face, or we're finished here today.”

“Dealer's choice, big guy.”

Brad's hand pushes into his hair again, curling around the back of his skull. “Ask me,” Brad says. “Nicely.”

It's been a while since Taako's hooked up with a dude who can hold his own, and honestly it's kinda fun. Maybe not the worst thing to get pushed around a little by a big hot orc in khakis, to kinda lean way into the absurdity of some pencil pushing nerdlord telling him what to do.

He pouts his lips in a fucky show of considering his options, then says, “Mouth I guess, I got places to be after this.”

Brad's fist tightens, jerking Taako's head back, abrupt enough to make him gasp. “Ask me nicely for what you want, or get out of my office.”

Taako pants a breathy “Jesus hell” as Brad's hand relaxes again, the heavy palm smoothed over the curve of Taako's skull. This is stupid. This is _so stupid_ , such total bullshit when both of them know Taako could kill this guy in a second, when some nobody from HR should be thankful for the _privilege_ of getting head from an elf of Taako's caliber.

But there’s a hot green cock in front of him that he desperately wants to taste. And his own is throbbing inside his shorts despite the protesting ache in his arms, despite the shit attitude of this asshole middle manager. Despite all of it he’s leaning forward with lips parted, his whole body electrified.

“I...” He licks his lips. “I want you to come in my mouth.” And then, his ears and cheeks and neck all burning hot with shame and lust, “Please.”

Another sharp tug on Taako’s hair, and this time when he gasps, Brad’s cock is roughly shoved into his open mouth.

It almost won’t fit. He struggles to curl his lips around his teeth, basic blowjob etiquette taking over as the rest of him is reeling, his senses overwhelmed. Short circuited by the spit-slippery heft of Brad’s cock on his tongue, the straining of his jaw, the firm hand at the back of his head, holding him in place as Brad fucks into his mouth. Half-choking as the head pushes into his throat, pulling in snatches of breath through his nose, already drooling and unable to stop, unable to wipe his mouth or to slow Brad’s pace or to switch to using his hands while he gets his sex legs under him again, not without letting go of the belt still held tight in his now-trembling palms, which he absolutely will not do; doesn’t _want_ to do.

The sounds alone are almost too much to stand: the lewd wet crackle of Brad fucking into him, Brad’s quiet grunts of pleasure and his own cock-muffled whimpers, the rustle of cloth as they move. Brad’s thrusts rock Taako’s body despite the grip on his head, and the slight shift of fabric over his dick has him dizzy with how badly he wants to be touched, how desperate he is for a hand in his pants. The pain in his arms and jaw and the rough burn of carpet under his knees all keep him here in this moment, inside his skin, focused on the taste of an oncoming orgasm.

His only warnings are a hitch of breath, a thrum in the skin pressing down on his tongue, a tightening of the hand in his hair. Then come floods his mouth, warm and bitter, too much and too sudden for him to swallow all of it and so it leaks from the valley of his bottom lip, drips from his chin onto the bare skin of his knees.

Brad holds Taako firmly in place as his cock pulses through the aftermath of orgasm, his breath roughened. Taako is nose deep in pubic hair, drooling come and spit and vibrating with how badly he wants to get off, how _close_ he already is.

Eventually, Brad releases him, pulls his softening dick from Taako’s mouth and lets go of his hair. Taako leans back on his heels, panting, as Brad tucks himself back inside his pants, casual and unselfconscious. Then he reaches up to carefully open Taako’s fingers and unwinds the belt from his wrists.

“You may lower your arms, now,” Brad says as he threads the belt back into place, “but keep your hands at your sides.”

“Fuck off,” Taako says, breathless and too thin. But once he’s dropped his aching arms, he presses both palms to the floor.

Brad circles around him; runs a finger along the flickering tip of one ear, which sends a jolt right to his dick. Taako pulls a sharp breath through his nose; flexes his fingers against the carpet. Behind him, now, Brad’s clothing whispers movement, and then Brad’s knees appear to either side of his hips. He feels warm solidity against his back, and a hot puff of breath in his ear that drags a shuddering gasp from his mouth.

“May I touch you?” Brad murmurs, smug.

“Christ, _yes_.”

“Mm.” Brad nuzzles the skin behind Taako’s ear as his hands reach around and down with maddening slowness; as they slide under Taako’s shirt to cup the slight curve of his stomach, to tease and pinch at his nipples. His body jumps in Brad’s arms, moans escaping from behind clenched teeth. His own hands flat on the floor.  

“Is there something else you want?” Brad asks, his voice barely more than breath but overwhelming in its nearness.

“You _know_.”

“Ask.”

Taako isn’t an idiot. He understands this game. “Please,” he says. He tries to spit the word out, to load it down with sarcasm, spin it as an eye roll instead of a plea, but it doesn’t sound like that at all. It sounds like what it is: desperation. “Please, I wanna come,” he says, and the end becomes a whine, and he feels like his face is on fire; like he’ll die if he has to ask again, but also, like he’d say any fucking thing right now to get Brad’s hand on his dick.

“Good boy,” Brad rumbles, and nips at his earlobe, and Taako would tell him to shut the hell up except his hands are at the waistband of Taako's shorts and the underwear beneath, pulling the elastic out and down. Taako's cock springs free with a soft bounce, and he groans with relief and with frantic arousal, his hips rocking minutely forward as Brad drops mocking kisses to the side of his neck. The taste of Brad's come on his tongue and Brad's hot breath his ear as finally, _finally_ , Brad's fingers brush up along the underside of his cock. He chokes out a “ _Fuck!”_ as they slowly close around him.

It takes almost no time at all. A few quick strokes, a sudden bite on the shell of his ear, and Taako spasms in Brad's arms with a broken-off cry, arching back into the broad chest behind him as he bucks into Brad's hand and spills onto his thighs.

They stay that way for long, panting seconds, Taako’s chest heaving as he leans against Brad’s solid bulk, one hand still holding his dick and the other idly tracing the hem of his shorts, a thumb running back and forth along his thigh. “Good boy,” Brad murmurs again, and kisses his shoulder, and Taako finally finds it in himself to rasp, “Go to hell.”

“Mmm.” Brad chuckles into his hair, wipes his come-slick palm on the front of Taako’s shirt, and stands so abruptly that Taako nearly falls over backward. He walks to his desk, pulls out his chair, and sits down again. “You may leave,” he says, an afterthought as he flips open a folder and reaches for a pen.

He does not look up as Taako awkwardly pushes himself to his feet, his legs unsteady from sex and kneeling. Taako shoves himself back into his pants; mutters a low word that scrubs the sticky mess from his shirt, from his face and the skin of his legs. He wants to say something cutting, but everything he reaches for rings hollow and pathetic, and his mouth stays closed.

The tiefling woman glances his way as he closes Bradson’s door behind him. “Do you need to schedule a follow-up appointment?” she asks, bland, and Taako can feel the blood pooling in his cheeks, at the tips of his ears, on his chest and his neck.

“All good,” he says, because what the fuck else _can_ he say?

He escapes into the hallway, imagining her eyes on his back.

*

Taako spends the afternoon training, has dinner in the cafeteria, picks a fight with Merle about what music to play in the common room, asks Magnus an open-ended question about the perks of multi-classing. He packs every hour with talk and magic, with practice and practicalities and opinions on Dwarven folk albums. He doesn't give himself more than a moment of peace. He stays busy with what's in front of him.

Eventually, though, Magnus is yawning between sentences. Eventually Merle slips away to bed, and Magnus falls asleep in the middle of a conversation before startling awake again and slumping off to his room. And Taako is left alone on the couch in their quiet dark apartment with nothing to distract him from the memory of what he's done, and with whom.

It all crashes down on his head in a mess of contradictory impulse, humiliation and resentment and curiosity and lust tangled together and no obvious thread to pull on to tease it all apart. He wants to blast that asshole with magic missiles and burn that smug tidy office to ash. He wants to wrap his legs around that broad green waist with his hands pinned above his head and be fucked until he begs for mercy.

He's been around and he's done plenty of weird horny shit. It's not like he's never gotten off on having some guy treat him like garbage. It's just that usually said guy is a hot bartender with a drunken disregard for manners and bodily autonomy, not...

Taako's half hard already, and he sighs as he cups a hand over himself, his head lolling back on the cushions behind him. It's all just so purposeful is the thing; so _calculated_ . Whatever Bradson's deal is, he's not just messing around; the guy fucks like he's playing chess, which shouldn't be hot but god _damn_ , it's like...

It's like Taako is a puzzle that Bradson's decided to solve with his dick.

And as much as he hates the idea of giving Bradson another reason to be smug, Taako's gotta be realistic here. He likes bottoming for beefy guys with big dicks who don't get all clingy after sex. Bradson fits the bill and he's obviously game. There's just absolutely no way Taako’s gonna pass on a chance to get properly nailed by this dude, so he may as well lean in and get off.

Taako slouches into his room, kicks the door shut behind him and peels off his clothes, dropping them on the floor in a trail. His hand is around his dick before his back even hits the bed.

He thinks of a much larger hand on his fingers, closing them over the end of a belt in his palm. He thinks of hot bitterness flooding his mouth and a warm wet dribble down over his chin. He thinks of a sudden fist in his hair, pulling on his scalp with perfect sharp pain.

But it’s the memory of that “good boy,” low and mocking in his ear, that pushes him over the edge.

*

After having gotten turned around in the corridors of the admin offices, Taako’s blown most of his breakfast hour before practice. So he’s shoving spoonfuls of granola and yogurt into his face when he hears a familiar low hum behind him, barely audible and thick with magic.

Bradson steps up beside where he's sitting and rests one hand on the end of the table.

The sounds of a busy cafeteria drop away -- voices, clattering trays, the clink of plates and silverware, the sizzle of eggs and meats, all of it swallowed up by that hum, a muffling blanket thrown over the room.

“I received your message,” Bradson says into this silence, his voice pleasant and bland. “I’ve scheduled an appointment for you this afternoon at one. Arrive promptly.”

Taako glances around, aware of how weird it is for the two of them to be talking. This is _not_ a rumor he wants to grow legs. “Yeah sure,” Taako mutters, eyes back on his food. “Sure, sounds good.”

“If you want to be fucked somewhere other than your mouth, you'll prepare yourself ahead of time,” Brad says, in the exact same tone as before. “Do we understand each other?”

Taako’s grip tightens on his fork. He’s grateful for the long wisps of hair that fall to either side of his jaw, hopefully masking the worst of his red-faced mortification.

“I asked you a question,” Bradson says, the syllables drawn out.

“Yeah,” Taako rasps. “Yeah, sure, I get you.”

“Good,” Bradson says.

The breakfastime clamor returns. When Taako chances a look, Bradson is gone.

*

Of course he knew what Bradson meant.

And it’s not like he’s never done this kind of thing before. He’s lubed himself up in the bathroom at a club, and dragged some lucky dude into a dark corner for a nice quick fuck against the wall. He’s waited in the back of his wagon, lounging on his bedroll with his skirt ridden up, so that whatever guy he’s currently toying with will discover him fingering himself with a smirk. It’s nice to go from alone and horny right to getting pounded, without having to deal with some hot-but-clueless idiot pawing at him beforehand.

This thing with Bradson, though? This shit is different.

Sure, he got this ball rolling with a note shoved into Brad’s inbox, but all that note said was “You gonna finish what you started?” None of this was his idea. He’s following instructions, and there’s no way to spin things otherwise.

There’s no fun, tipsy impulsiveness. There’s no smug self-satisfied scheming.

There's a dildo fished out of a box in his closet, slicked with magic and gradually eased inside him. There's stopping just short of the crest of orgasm, cock throbbing and breath ragged. There's gingerly slipping back into his clothes, and waiting for his erection to calm into something a loose tunic can hide. There's walking across the quad and past a dozen coworkers, knowing that he's just gotten himself ready to be fucked, his pants clinging uncomfortably to the slickness between his legs. There's Charity's cheery condescension as she tells him he can go right in; that Bradson is expecting him.

Bradson is seated at his desk. The click of the closing door draws his eyes upward.

“So we doing this in here again?” Taako drawls, rushing to fill the silence first. “I mean listen, Taako’s ready to go, just wondering about the logistics. Like, I’ll fuck a guy in an office chair but it’s kinda rough on the quads.”

“You’re late,” Bradson says, crisply unmoved.

Taako tries for a casual shrug. “Hey, you want me ready, that takes time,” he says, with a flipness that makes this all feel a little more under his control; like some whim of his own made him stretch himself out with a dildo as thick as his wrist.

“Hm.” Bradson retracts his attention and shifts loose papers into a pile. “Take off your clothes, then wait there by the door.”

There’s a knee-jerk moment of wanting to tell Bradson to get lost, to just turn right back around again and ditch this insane sex appointment. But he doesn’t want to slink away to jerk off in his bedroom. He wants to get railed, and he wants it _bad_. So he settles for a put-upon sigh and an unobserved eyeroll as he kicks off his flipflops, drops his wide-legged pants into a puddle around his feet, pulls his tunic over his head and tosses it carelessly over the back of a chair.

He hesitates at the underwear -- a pair of white briefs he specifically chose to be seen in, thin fabric that shines bright against brown skin and barely contains his erection. But Bradson doesn’t look up, and Taako’s not gonna give this guy a reason to kick him out before they fuck. The underwear joins the pile on the floor, and then Taako is naked in this plain practical office, listening to the scratch of a pen and his own lust-roughed breath.

Probably only a minute or so passes, but they stretch out into humiliating eternity, made worse by how hard he is despite all this neglect. At last, Bradson caps the pen and sits back in his chair. And Taako watches, skin prickling from chill and nerves, as Bradson rearranges the objects on top of the desk, his work slipped into folders and neatly stacked, a stapler and a pen cup and a small brass lamp shifted to the top of a filing cabinet.

Then Bradson looks up at him again, an evaluative gaze scanning over Taako’s body. “Good,” he says. He gestures to the now-empty rectangle of the leather blotter. “Come here and lie down on your back.”

Taako shifts his weight to one foot, his hip jutting out. “You gonna make me?” he purrs, or tries to. His heart is hammering on his ribs, the fucking traitor.

“No,” Brad says. He stands up from his chair and walks around the side of the desk, fingertips skimming the smooth polished wood. And then he waits, pitiless and silent, as Taako squirms under the weight of his eye.

“God, you’re such an asshole,” Taako mutters, but his feet are already carrying him across the short blue carpet. He swivels around on his bare heel with a put-upon flourish, and sits on the edge of the desk, and heaves another sigh as he lays back along it. But there’s no way to spin this as anything other than what it is: serving himself up like an entré to order.

The leather is cold against his skin, but that’s not what sends him shivering; it’s the hand that takes firm hold of his thigh and pushes it out to one side, leaving the tight clutch of his balls exposed, cool air on the slickness beneath. Brad’s palm slides up the inside of his leg, and dips down to his ass; Taako clenches his jaw against a moan as a broad blunt finger pushes inside him.

“Good,” Brad says again, although now his voice is lower. He rests his other hand on Taako’s waist, pinning him down, which makes it impossible for him to rock his hips to meet Brad’s hand inside him; impossible to do anything but lay there on his back and try not to whimper while Brad evaluates the state of his ass and says, smug, “You must be desperate by now.”

“Fuck off.”

“I don’t think that’s what you want,” Brad rumbles, and withdraws his hand, which pulls a whimper from Taako’s throat and another pathetic twitch against the tight grip on his waist. “Raise your arms and hold the edge of the desk.”

Taako can’t think of anything smart to say. He does as he’s told, gripping the wood behind his head. The angle makes it hard for him to see what Brad’s doing, but the clink of a belt buckle and the soft pop of buttons are un-fucking-mistakeable. Then Brad’s massive hands close around his waist, and drag him down and past the desktop, until most of his ass is over open air, held up by Brad’s hands and the muscles of his abdomen.

The nudge of Brad’s cock against him is enough to make him whimper. His legs come up to hook around Brad's hips as Brad leans down to kiss him, sudden and rough, a hot tongue in his mouth and tusks bruising his lips, long enough to leave him gasping. Brad pulls back to look down at him, dark eyes pinning him just as firmly as the hands on his hips. “If you let go, we stop. Do you understand?”

Taako swallows and flexes his hands on the wood. “Yes,” he says, because he’s not gonna risk getting blueballed again, not when he’s this close.

“Keep your eyes open,” Brad says. “You’re going to watch me fuck you.”

Then Brad ruts into him with a ruthless thrust that explodes white and hot behind his eyes.

Christ, it’s so good. Hunger for the stretch and burn of a big dick is how he ended up here, and it’s _perfect_ , and he can’t help but moan as Brad fucks into him; as the pleasure of it arcs through his body, electric; as all the windup and wondering unspools and weeks of jerkoff fantasies are fucked into his body, are pressed into him like the thumbs on his hip bones, vague horny daydreams inhabited by the solid green body bent over him, by their sweat and their breath and the wet sounds of their sex, the smell of another man's arousal, the rustle of clothes and the creak of the desk. The tails of Brad’s shirt, untucked when he pulled himself out of his pants, brush against Taako’s straining erection.

He tries to focus on the center of Brad’s chest, but his eyes keep drifting upward. Brad’s smirk has sharpened to something hungry, his eyes gone a little wild, his lips parted, a strand of hair loose along his forehead. Taako can’t see where their bodies connect, but he can watch the steady swing of Brad’s hips, the pulse along that thick green neck, his own skin dimpled by Brad’s thumbs. He can see his cock, flushed dark and drooling, which bobs in time with the slap of Brad’s groin against his ass. Every damn thing he'd wanted when he'd snuck into that cabin in the woods, and goaded Brad into following him outside. He'd wanted Brad to fuck him just like this, to be held up and in place by a broad pair of hands, stretched and filled and soaring high with the pleasure of being used by a top who knows what he's doing.

“I want you to come while I’m fucking you,” Brad growls. “And then I want to come inside you.”

Taako whimpers, too high and too plaintive. “Jesus...”

Fingertips dig into Taako’s waist as Brad fucks hm harder. “I want to fill you up until it drips out of your ass and falls onto the floor,” Brad rumbles. “Does that sound good to you? Is that what you want from me, you greedy thing?”

“ _Fuck._ ”

“Is it?”

“ _Yes._ ”

“Touch yourself.”

Taako doesn’t even reply. A groan of relief tears out of him as his hands fly down to curl around his dick, the feel of his fingers so intense that his shoulders jerk up off the desk.

“Eyes open,” Brad says, and Taako’s too out of his mind with lust and pleasure to do anything but stare, to watch Brad’s face watching him, his own face burning and mouth wide, his body rocking on the skin-warmed leather blotter. Brad huge and hot and perfect inside him, thrusting up against the root of his cock.

His teeth clench against a cry as he comes with a hot sudden splash up his stomach. He forces his eyes to stay on Brad’s face, and so catches a telltale tightening of his jaw, a hitch in that satisfied smile, as Brad's hips stutter against him. Brad grunts softly under his breath, panting slightly, sweat beaded on his forehead. Watching Taako from under heavy lids and dark thick lashes.

“Good, obedient pets get what they want,” he rumbles. He leans in for a mocking kiss, gentle and lingering. Then warm wetness slides along the curve of Taako's ass as he pulls out.

Taako wants to tell him off, but his brain is still too blasted by orgasm to put the words together, and before he can get sorted Brad lets go of his hips and steps away. His feet swing awkwardly down to the floor, bare soles thudding onto the carpet. He stares up at the beige panels of the ceiling and listens to the rasp of his own breath.

“I’ll need the use of my desk by two,” Brad says, his tone disinterested.

There’s the tinkle of a belt buckle, and soft cloth sounds, and muffled footsteps.

The door to the office opens and closes.

“What the fuck,” Taako mutters. To the empty room, and to his own damn self, as Brad’s come drips down the inside of his leg.

*

Charity doesn’t look up when Brad steps in out of the corridor at half past two. He wonders if, by some miracle, he’s going to get away with slipping back into his office and closing the door behind him without her saying something smart, but-

“Not like you to take a second lunch hour,” Charity drawls.

Brad’s hand is on the doorknob. He sighs, and squares his shoulders, and does some quick thinking. He’s emphatically _not_ going to lie to her. But a certain amount of editing? “I had an afternoon coffee at home,” he says, clipped. Which is true.

But that coffee had been drunk after a long shower, during which he had leaned against the bathroom wall and closed his eyes and thought about the sound of rough breathing, and soft brown skin under his palms, and hot tight squirming warmth around his cock, and a stripe of come painted up a narrow sweat-slicked chest.

In the end, he’d taken care of himself while lying on his bed, his hair still damp and his mind yelling at him that this is how teenagers behave, not thirty-five-year-old professionals with multiple reports and a retirement savings account.

Now, Charity raises her head with unhurried relish and props her chin on one hand. “He left nearly an hour ago.”

“Good.”

“Your silencing spell seems to have worked.”

“Ah.” He can feel his cheeks heating a little. “Good.”

“Will this be a recurring appointment, then?”

Gods. “Charity, I appreciate your accomodations and your aid,” he says, “but I don’t want to put you in the position of-”

“Bradson.” She reaches for her planner and flips through it, scanning the neatly labeled agendas for each day. “This hour is generally free,” she says a moment later. “If you like, I’ll pencil Taako in for the next few weeks. Just to keep it open.”

Brad wonders, not for the first time, what he ever did to deserve a colleague this ruthless and unflappable. “You may as well, yes,” he says stiffly. “Thank you.”

She hums assent, makes a few efficient marks, and closes the planner again with a snap. “Don’t forget you’re interviewing a contractor at three.”

“Of course.” He opens his office door, at last, and is part way through when his guilty conscience stops him once again. “Charity, my private life is not your responsibility. We’ve been working closely for some time, now...” He swallows. “I’m trusting that you’ll tell me if you feel uncomfortable.”

He glances her way, and finds her grinning at him with familiar smug affection. “It’s nice to see you having a good time,” she says. And then she reaches for a folder on the top of her inbox, a clear signal that the matter is closed as far as she’s concerned.

“Well,” Brad says, more to himself than anything.

Well.

This will be interesting.  


**Author's Note:**

> Longtime readers may notice some things in this fic series have moved around a bit! This story is a from-scratch rewrite that replaces two now-deleted fics in continuity. It covers some of the same ground but handles that ground differently, in ways that I think are more in keeping with how the rest of "I'm With the Band" turned out.
> 
> If you're revisiting IWTB, another great way to do so is....PODFIC!!!!! Rainbowwhimsy has been adapting the series into audio and they're doing an amazing job -- [you can listen to the first installment here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17788559)
> 
> Title is from [Magnets](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b_KfnGBtVeA), by Disclosure, another excellent suggestion from RQT.
> 
> And thank you so much to RQT, as well, for the beta!!!!!
> 
> @Wildgoosery


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